Seafood Dances

Friday, January 27, 2012

It’s funny, the things that come out of nowhere and punch you in the gut. This time it was one of those modified pictures that make the rounds on FaceBook that I’m fairly certain are supposed to be funny. Edmund Blair-Leighton’s painting The Accolade—you know, the Pre-Raphaelite queen in the white dress knighting the handsome young man. The added caption was “Not every girl likes chivalry. Just the ones worth dying for.”

So here’s the thing. Somewhere along the way, people started thinking that “chivalry” and “courtesy” are the same thing. They’re not. Holding the door for the person behind you, regardless of your respective gender presentations is courtesy. Offering your seat on the bus to the person with their arms full is courteous, regardless of whether they’re wearing heels and a skirt. If you are a dude and you hold the door for women but not for men, you aren’t chivalrous, you’re just a douchebag. And if you get to the door first and the woman behind you has her hands full but you don’t hold the door because, hey feminism, well then you’re just an asshole.

Because let’s be clear what we’re talking about when we talk about chivalry. As much as modern chivalry advocates would have us believe that chivalry and courtesy are the same, chivalry is a system in which women of a certain social class agree to sacrifice autonomy and their status as human beings so that men of the same social class will protect them as valuable property from other men who may want to damage said property. A system where men of noble rank were free to rape peasant women, because courtesy was wasted on such a woman who couldn’t feel love. A system where as long as a man was unfaithful only with his libido, not his heart, it was all good, but a woman who committed adultery could be killed for dishonoring herself and her family.

If you are woman of a lower social class, you are fair game.

If you are not appropriately meek and virtuous, you are fair game.

If you slip from your pedestal and demonstrate any human flaw, you fall down here with the rest of the bitches and whores. You are fair game.

I struggle with femininity. I love makeup and always have. I love sparkles and flowers and mermaids and rainbows, and always have. I enjoy “girl-drag” from time to time—the trappings of traditional femininity.

But to be feminine in our culture is to be incompetent. It is to throw like a girl. It is to cry like a little girl. It is to be delicate. Sexy, but not sexual. Smart, but not too smart. Quiet. Submissive. I am none of these things. I laugh too loud at raunchy jokes. I am smart and I don’t hide it. I like sex. I don’t stroke egos. I try to be kind, but I do not submit. I’ve been on the pedestal, and the price was too high. There’s no wiggle room, no room for the inevitable failure. I am not a goddess. I am not La Belle Dame Sans Merci. I am not the pure, virtuous ideal. I am a human woman with human flaws and human passions.

So when I read that—just the ones worth dying for—600 years of chivalry’s baggage hit me like a sleeper wave. 600 years’ worth of messages telling me to be desirable but unattainable, of my honor being reduced to what’s between my legs, of my worth being determined by how closely I can live up to the ideal—how well I balance on the pedestal. I was reminded that as a flawed person, I am nothing but a bitch and a whore, certainly not a goddess worth dying for.

This is chivalry’s legacy. It is a world where an 11 year old girl is blamed for her own gang-rape because she is seen as low-class. It is men who scream epithets at women who have the gall to refuse them, however politely, because their honor has been insulted. It is women who slut-shame, thinking that their virtue will keep them safe. Chivalry can’t die fast enough, as far as I’m concerned. If that makes me not worth dying for, so be it. The women in chivalric romances who are worth dying for all come to depressing ends—both the cause and the victims of death and tragedy. I have no interest in the simple joys of maidenhood. Worth dying for? Screw that. I’d rather be worth living for.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

I’ve been thinking about Romance with a capital R for a while now. Like, a long while. Like going back to 1990 when I acquired my first boyfriend. And the conclusion I have come to is this: most of what we code as “Romantic” is uniformly douchey.

There have been some pop culture moments that have driven this home for me: Brenda and Dylan on Beverly Hills 90210, Titanic, Twilight, among others. The most recent moment was a discussion on the radio about “guy bands” and “chick bands.”

The consensus in the room was that Matchbox 20 is a chick band. Ok, fine. The song that was chosen to play next—I can only assume given its timing that it was chosen to epitomize the “chick bandness” of Matchbox 20—was “Bright Lights”.

I’m fairly neutral about Matchbox 20. I don’t hate them. I don’t love them. My favorite Matchbox 20 song is actually a Santana song with lead vocal done by Rob Thomas. Whatever. But I hate, with a flaming passion, the song “Bright Lights”. This is a song that, as near as I can tell, is universally considered Romantic. Here are the lyrics for your consideration:

She got out of townOn a railway New York boundTook all except my nameAnother alien on BroadwayThere's some things in this worldYou just can't changeSomethings you can't seeUntil it gets too late

Baby, baby, babyWhen all your love is goneWho will save meFrom all I'm up against out in this worldMaybe, maybe, maybeYou'll find somethingThat's enough to keep youBut if the bright lights don't receive youYou should turn yourself aroundAnd come on home

I got a hole in me nowyeah,I got a scar I can talk aboutShe keeps a picture of meIn her apartment in the citySome things in this worldMan, they don't make senseSome things you don't needUntil they leave youAnd they're things that you miss

Baby, baby, babyWhen all your love is goneWho will save meFrom all I'm up against out in this worldMaybe, maybe, maybeYou'll find somethingThat's enough to keep youBut if the bright lights don't receive youYou should turn yourself aroundAnd come on home

Let that city take you in, come on homeLet that city spit you out, come on homeLet that city take you down, yeahGod's sake turn around

Baby, baby, babyWhen all your love is goneWho will save meFrom all I'm up against in this worldMaybe, maybe, maybeYou'll find somethingThat's enough to keep youBut if the bright lights don't receive youYou should turn yourself aroundAnd come on home

Come on homeBaby, baby, babyCome on homeYeah, come on homeYeah, come on home

So what we have here is a male narrator whose female love interest has refused to marry him (“took all except my name”) and has moved to New York City to pursue some dream, possibly show business (“another alien on Broadway”). He tells her that he needs her and that if it doesn’t work out she should come back home to him. Ok, fine.

Except. This song reads like every conversation I had with every boyfriend who was threatened by my ambition. It is full of implications that she can’t possibly succeed, a subtle undermining of her confidence in her abilities. It is most obvious in the bridge:

Let that city take you in, come on homeLet that city spit you out, come on homeLet that city take you down, yeahGod's sake turn around

I’ve heard this explained as just “well, most people who move to NYC to be in show business really DON’T succeed, and he just doesn’t want her to be disappointed.” I call bs. I think the crux of the song is actually the first part of the chorus:

Baby, baby, babyWhen all your love is goneWho will save meFrom all I'm up against in this world

It’s all about him. He doesn’t want her to leave because he’s afraid that he’s not good enough. As far as he’s concerned, her role is to support him in his fight against the big, bad world. Is there an ambitious woman who hasn’t heard this? “Sure honey, you go try to be more than you are. Don’t worry, when you fall on your face, I’ll take you back.” Douchey.

As near as I can tell, a fair bit of heterosexual Romance is set up to keep women less than, to benefit the male partner by making her look like a bitch if she isn’t properly grateful. Consider:

·Surprise marriage proposals in very public places. Unless she has 1) already said she wants to marry you and 2) indicated that she likes very public displays like this, then this is nothing more than a setup to pressure her into saying yes to you. If she says anything other than an ecstatic “Of course!” then she looks like a huge bitch in front of large numbers of people. Douchey.

·Very public apologies for private transgressions. This really could be utilized by either party, but you see it more when men are apologizing. I'm not sure why. If she doesn’t accept your apology, she looks like a huge bitch in front of large numbers of people. Douchey.

·Attempting to restrict her movements out of “concern” for her safety or feelings. Women are socialized to be fearful. We are also socialized to ignore our own “creepy” radar in the interest of being nice to strangers. When you try to tell her not to do things or go places because you don’t think it’s “safe”, what you’re really doing is attempting to control her and substitute your judgement for her own. Douchey.

·Approaching random attractive women with romantic or sexual overtures. At best, you think you are paying her the compliment of saying “hey, I want to have sex with you.” Because we all know that random strangers wanting to have sex with us is the highest compliment we can be paid. Douchey.

At worst, you are putting her in a situation where you benefit from her cultural training to be nice to strangers, since odds are good that she’ll say something like “I have a boyfriend/husband” (code: I am owned by another dude-don’t horn in on his territory) or “I’m busy” which are both very easy to ignore if you are a dude who thinks he is entitled to a woman’s attention. If she responds more like I’ve started to do—“I’m not interested in you. Please leave me alone.”—she runs the risk of, say it with me now, looking like a huge bitch in front of large numbers of people. This can be a big disincentive to responding this way. Women are supposed to be polite, especially to men who are “just paying them a compliment.Douchey.

I prefer romance to Romance. To me, romance is someone being with you because they want to, not because you’ve manipulated them into it. It’s your partner scraping the ice off your windshield for you when they leave for work before you do. It’s the little considerations that say “I know you and I have considered who you are as an individual human being when choosing this gift or completing this task.” It is bothering to have a conversation with a person before you decide that they are the love of your life and owe you their attention. It is recognizing and supporting your partner’s potential as a human being and being recognized and supported in return.

You can keep your Romance. I’ll stick with romance. It’s less douchey.

Friday, January 22, 2010

Today, I turn 37. I have been able to drive for 21 years. I have been able to vote for 19. I have earned a bachelor’s degree and a law degree, both from one of the top universities in the country. I have spent the last 10 years as a married woman. I own a house, a car, and a cat.

So my question is this: When exactly will I have proven myself responsible enough to decide what is best for my body, my mind, and my family?

In Florida, a woman still legally able to obtain an abortion was effectively kidnapped by the state and her doctor and forced into hospitalized bedrest to prevent a miscarriage, despite the fact that she would lose her job and she was the only person available to care for her two (already born) toddlers. She ended up on the receiving end of a C-section to remove the dead fetus.

There are areas of this country where the only healthcare available is at a Catholic hospital. Female patients of these hospitals are often unable to obtain any sort of prescription contraception. The Catholic Church continues to fight states’ efforts to require their hospitals to dispense emergency contraception TO RAPE VICTIMS at the patient’s request.The views of the Catholic Church on abortion and contraception were given weight by Congress during the recent debate on the proposed health care reform bills, despite the supposed separation of Church and State in this country.

Pregnant women who don’t want to have their labor induced have to fight tooth and nail a medical industry that seems more interested in the convenience of the doctor than the safety and ease of the woman’s delivery. The same goes for women who want to give birth to a child vaginally after a C-section. And chances are good that the first C-section was unnecessary to begin with.

I have taken birth control pills for almost 20 years. I have known for the last five or so that I do not want to carry and give birth to children. I have not spoken to my doctor about the possibility of tubal ligation, because the standard answer for women under the age of 35 is that they may change their mind and regret it. I have a strong suspicion that what that actually means is “you may change your mind and sue me.” I wonder if I'm old enough at 37 to know my own mind.

My President has consistently gone on record saying that he thinks that whether I continue a pregnancy is a decision for me, my doctor, my family, and my minister. What if my “family” (does anyone think this means anything other than “husband”? Does the President think I’m going to go ask my brother if he thinks I should get an abortion?) is abusive and got me pregnant so I would be tied to him? What if I don’t have a minister? What if my doctor is at a Catholic hospital? When do I get to make that decision for myself, based on what’s best for me?

I am 37 years old. I have fought for reproduction rights my entire adult life. I believe that women, given the information they need, will make the right choices for themselves and their families. And if they don’t, it is not the government’s or their doctor’s, or their church’s or anyone else’s church’s job to protect them from regret.

Friday, September 18, 2009

Edited to add context: This story is the result of an exercise I set myself: to draft a tellable adaptation of a traditional "fairy wife" tale that would be appropriate for my Renaissance Faire character (a prosperous carpenter's wife" to tell. I chose to adapt "The Sky Woman's Basket" because its themes moved me very deeply. That said, I recognize the problematic history of American and European individuals and entities co-opting the culture of a colonized people for their own entertainment. This is not a story I would tell, I think. In performance I would not move the action to England, but remain truer to the original tale. The version I heard can be enjoyed here.

Once in this village there lived a man with a flock of sheep. The yarn spun from their wool was as light and fine as Venetian silk and every day he took them to pasture in the fields with the greenest and sweetest grass. Each year when the time came to shear them, his sheep gave him the finest wool in Derbyshire.

One year, the night before shearing day, the man gathered his sheep and locked them in their pen. He slept that night, dreaming of the fine wool he would gather the next day. When he awoke, he gathered his tools and his helpers and went out to the pen. There he found half the sheep already shorn! “There is a thief in the village,” thought the man. “Tonight I will keep watch and catch whoever it is when they come to finish the job!”

So that night the man locked his sheep in their pen and pretended to go to sleep. While he watched, nine beautiful maidens walked out of the nearby forest, each carrying shears and a basket. The maidens called to the sheep, who came willingingly and lay down for them while the maidens harvested their wool. Then the maidens turned to go back to the forest. The man ran after them crying “Stop! Thieves!” but they faded back into the trees.

He managed to catch up with the last maiden, who had dropped her basket and had to stop. He grabbed her arm as she started to retreat into the forest. “Woman!” he bellowed, “Thou art a thief and must repay me for what thou hast stolen. Stay and work for me for nine months and thy debt shall be paid.” The maiden thought a moment and said “That is fair. I will stay and work for you for nine months.”

Now the day came when the nine months had passed. The man went to the maiden as she kneaded the day’s bread and said, “Thy debt hath been paid, thou mayest leave me this day. But I have grown fond of thee these nine months, and I pray thee, stay and be mine own wife.”

And the maiden thought a moment and said “Thou art a good man, and I too have grown fond of thee. I will stay and be thy wife an thou makest me one promise. Promise me thou shalt ne’er look inside my basket.”

The man looked at the closed basket in the corner where it had sat ignored these many months. He laughed. “I promise thee, silly woman! What care I for baskets?”

So the man and the maiden were married and lived very happily for nine years. She bore him nine children, all tall and beauteous and wise, and their fields and flocks were most prosperous. From time to time, the man would look at the basket whither it sat in the corner and wonder what it contained, but then he would look at his beautiful and clever wife and think “What care I for baskets?”

One day his wife had gone to the market in the village and as he worked throughout the day, his thoughts returned to the basket again and again. What secrets did it hold? What did his wife hide from him? Distrust grew in him like a canker until he could stand it no more. He went inside, threw the lid from the basket, looked inside and saw—nothing.

He laughed at his foolishness, and that of his wife and turned to retrieve the basket’s lid. As he did, he saw his wife standing in the door. “What hast thou done, husband!” she cried. “Silly woman,” the man laughed, “there is nothing in this basket!”

His wife looked him, picked up the lid, and replaced it on the basket. Then she picked it up and walked out the door and back into the forest, never to be seen again. And when the man called to their nine handsome children to come home that night, they too had disappeared.

The man spent the rest of his days searching the forest for his wife and children. His sheep grew thin and dirty, his fields turned to weeds. The men of the village have always said that she left because he dishonored her. A promise is a promise, after all, e’en one made to a woman. And their wives nod their heads in agreement.

But at the well and oven and market stalls, the women tell each other their truth. They say the maiden from the forest left because the man saw nothing but an empty basket.

This story is my adaptation of a traditional story (possibly Zulu) called "The Sky Woman's Basket" as told by master storyteller David Novak. It is inspired by the work of storyteller Janice Del Negro of Dominican University in Illinois, as well as by "The Seal Maiden", "The Crane Wife", "The Tale of Melusine", and other ancient stories of betrayed fairy wives. It also owes a little debt of gratitude to the story "A Jury of Her Peers" by Susan Glaspell.

Friday, July 24, 2009

The husband and I watched Fanboys not too long ago. We’d seen a preview for it AGES ago, and kept waiting for it to come out, being Star Wars fans and all.

All in all, it was an entertaining film. A little on the dudely side, but what could I expect from something call Fanboys, right? It was filled with references to them calling their right hands Leia, that kind of stuff.

And then, the one fangirl—the one who is tough and smart and brave and excellent with logistics (because that what the token girl is for—organizing the superfocused boys into some semblance of efficiency—but that’s another rant altogether)—finishes out the movie in Leia’s gold slave girl bikini from Return of the Jedi. And it sort of squicked me out, but I couldn’t really identify why.

We were inspired to watch the original movies again, something we hadn’t done for a long time. I used the opportunity to try to figure out why the fanboy love of the gold bikini sat so poorly with me.

From a feminist perspective, Leia is a great, and pretty unusual, character. She’s a fully developed human being. She has authority and is treated with respect because of it. She has expertise in strategy and is deferred to because of it. She has a romantic relationship, but it isn’t the focus of her character, nor would I even call it her primary relationship in the films.

Throughout most of the films, Leia’s costuming reflects these aspects of her character. She has dignity. She dresses appropriately to the situation. When she’s in battle, she dresses like she’s in battle—the hair is out of the way, the shoes are good for running, the appropriate camouflage and protective gear is present. When she’s acting as a dignitary, her clothes are flattering (well, as flattering as 1970s scifi costuming could be expected to be), but modest, designed to command respect for her and for the office she is filling.

The one time we see Leia in something conventionally sexy, she has had all power stripped from her. Even when she is being held prisoner by Vader in the opening of Episode 4, she retains her rank as princess and ambassador. In Jabba’s “court” she has been literally objectified—reduced to an ornament. Her gold bikini is emblematic of her lack of status and control. She is exposed, vulnerable.

And therein lies the crux of the fanboy lust issue for me. For all that so many of them say they love Leia for her strength, the fantasy focuses on the 10 minutes out of three films when she is forced into submission. The iconic image of sexy Return of the Jedi Leia is one of subjugation and powerlessness. In focusing their desire and fantasy on the gold bikini, the fanboys are identifying not with Han, who loves and desires Leia as a complete and autonomous person, but with Jabba, who sees her as a possession and a decorative object.

A younger friend, a young woman who I think falls more into the Third Wave than I do, has indicated to me that she thinks the gold bikini can be reclaimed from the fanboys and given a feminist spin. It is an idea that intrigues me, but I have my doubts. I’m not sure how to reclaim something that wasn’t ours to begin with. An argument can be made, I suppose, that if women are choosing to put on the costume that it becomes emblematic of the choice to be seen as sexual. I think that this requires removing the costume from its context, though. The gold bikini plays into a very old, traditional frame of female sexuality—powerlessness, vulnerability, and submission.

And while it is true that choice as to how to live one’s life is the basis of feminism, I would argue that not all choices are feminist. The choice to play at submissiveness, to purposefully step into a powerless role, is certainly a valid one that I respect an individual’s right to make. In our current society, however, where female sexuality is still based almost entirely around objectification, I think it’s harder to argue that the choice is a feminist one.

I hope to see the day when I am proven wrong about this. But for now, when a fanboy tells me he loves strong women but has fantasies about the gold bikini that don’t involve Leia strangling Jabba with her slave chain, I keep my guard up. My experience tells me that what he probably means is that he may think he loves strong women, but what he really loves is strong women made helpless. Ask yourself this question: At the end of Return of the Jedi, when the teddy bears are done dancing and the celebrations are over, do you think Leia would have put on the gold bikini for Han’s benefit?

Friday, June 26, 2009

My grandmother died this morning, a week short of her 95th birthday. The last couple of years her health had started to deteriorate and she spent quite a bit of time lately in and out of the hospital. I’ve been prepared for this for a while now, though I feel keenly for my mother and my aunt.

This is how I remember my grandmother:

She was a Southern Baptist who loved to go dancing.

She loved Gospel music,hymns, and Big Band.

When she was a little girl, in the early 1920s, she bullied the barber of her little Arkansas town into cutting her hair in a bob like the big girls had. She told him her grandmother (who raised her) said that he should just do it and stop arguing. Said grandmother was not amused.

During WWII, my grandfather got a job in Oak Ridge working in the lab (I’m not really sure what he was doing exactly). He had told my grandmother to get some new tires from the rationing board to make the drive from Texas to Tennessee. The man at the rationing board refused to give her the tires. When she told him she was going to meet her husband who was working for the government in Oak Ridge, he refused to acknowledge the existence of Oak Ridge. She stood there in front of him with two little girls and argued with him until he gave her the tires.

In the 1950s, she was one of the first women to work in appliance sales in her Sears store. At the time, only men were allowed to sell appliances, as the work was considered too strenuous for a woman. It was also considerably better paid as appliance salesmen earned commission and the ladies selling brassieres did not. She fought her way into appliances and was soon meeting and topping the commissions earned by the men.

In the 1980s when my grandfather died after a long battle with Alzheimer’s Disease, she moved from the town in Idaho where they had retired to Glendale, CA to live with my aunt. My aunt was a long-time employee of the Los AngelesUnifiedSchool District--first as a teacher, then as an administrator--and had quite a diverse array of work friends, including at least one gay gentleman. My grandmother, a conservative at heart, seemed to accept this gentleman as a beloved part of my aunt’s life. I don’t know how she felt about him, or how she spoke of him when I wasn’t around, but I never heard her talk about him with anything but respect.

When my husband met my grandmother for the first time, we were sitting in her living room with my mother and my aunt. My mother was chiding my grandmother for being too stubborn. My husband told me later that as he looked from me, to my mother, to my grandmother, he caught a glimpse of who I would be in the future and that it was both intimidating and really cool.

I love you, Grandma. Give Grandpa my love and do a little foxtrot in Heaven.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

At a press conference in December 2008, you described yourself as a fierce advocate for gay and lesbian Americans. At the time I was skeptical, having seen little evidence of fierce advocacy, particularly since the comment was in response to criticism of you inviting noted homophobe, misogynist, and religious bigot Rick Warren to speak at your inauguration.

Since that time, I have scoured the news for reports of your fierce advocacy. Here is what I have seen:

·Since April of 2008 your office has pledged to fight to overturn Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. As Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces, you could have issued an executive order restricting enforcement of DADT while working with the Democratic majority in Congress to overturn it. Instead, your administration has issued briefs supporting the policy and has backpedaled on your pledge, claiming that you are too occupied with the economy right now to do anything at all about DADT. Additionally, you made light of the situation at a fundraising dinner in Southern California when you joked that you couldn’t remember what promise the protesters outside were talking about.

·You have, on numerous occasions, expressed your desire to repeal the Defense of Marriage Act. However, when faced with a challenge to DOMA, the Justice Department chose to respond by supporting the law, not just on the legitimate standing issue, but by comparing same-sex marriages to those between an uncle and niece and between an adult and a 16-year old. Language tying the marriage of two consenting, unrelated adults to those that are bordering on incest and pedophilia is what we have come to expect from homophobes, not allies.

·Perhaps in response to criticism of the above stances, your office announced that it will extend fringe benefits to federal employees in same-sex partnerships. However, since DOMA is still in effect, the federal government is barred from extending marriage benefits to same-sex couples. If no benefits will actually be extended, your announcement is an empty gesture.

In short, Mr. President, I have yet to see the promised fierce advocacy. I see political expedience, hollow promises, and appeals to bigotry. While I do not expect instantaneous change in long standing policies, I do expect you to take steps to fulfill the promises that were, after all, the reason I voted for you and not the Green Party ticket.

Until I see that your administration is taking steps to fulfill its promises to the LGBT community, my monetary support will go only to those candidates and organizations that are actively fighting to make substantive changes in the way the federal government treats LGBT citizens. You will receive no contributions. The Democratic Party as a whole will receive no contributions.

Melusine im Bade

About Me

I'm a 30-something, happily married straight, cisgendered, white, non-Christian, normally-abled feminist woman. Did I miss anything?
I like to read, discuss politics and pop culture, cook, sew, and do random needlework and fiber crafts. I enjoy children's literature, ghost stories and folklore. I have a law degree.I am a terrible housekeeper.
I have been described by my friend The Hobbit Lady as a bleeding heart with limits. I'm not sure what those limits are exactly, but whatever. I have been told by my husband that I am not for beginners. Make of that what you will.